


a pocket full of posies

by esotericecho



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Brief Mentions of Death and Suicide, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Gen, pre-release
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 21:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esotericecho/pseuds/esotericecho
Summary: "You will come, won't you?"Or, Byleth keeps a promise.





	1. forget me, forget me, forget-me-knot [part i]

**Author's Note:**

> What follows is half speculation and half wishful thinking. The goal is to finish this before the game releases and proves me wrong on every conceivable detail. Please join me on a journey to make this a reality since the contents therein certainly won't be!

Byleth tries to catch her breath as she wrenches her sword out of her latest assailant. Her arms burn with exertion and the weapon has never felt so heavy in her grasp, but she needed to keep moving.

_Another one from Faerghus_ , she notes, taking in the blue uniform before continuing up the mountain and towards the monastery atop it.

The last three had been decked in the red of the Empire.

\--

It was a setup.

The escort mission for a Leicester Alliance caravan through Faerghus was as routine as it got. They had met their charges in Daphnel and guided them without incident through Charon. After a brief stop at the monastery to refuel on supplies, they made for Magdred, where Adrestian troops would be waiting to take the merchants along the rest of their route around the Empire.

It was supposed to be one last class mission before everyone went their separate ways, a break to stretch their legs, breathe some fresh air after their grueling weeks of finals. Byleth, too, had been getting antsy after her relatively stationary year at the academy and she was hardly a fan of the ever-present opportunities to commit one political faux pas or another. She missed the roaming lifestyle she had grown up on and was trying to think of how to request an extended leave of absence as soon as possible.

The ambush had come from the merchants first, the men and women they’d been entrusted with, laughed with, dined with night after night. On their final evening before reaching the Adrestian border, when they had heard of the students’ impending graduation, they had insisted on a toast to celebrate their achievements and thank them for protecting them in their trek across the continent.

The ale had been spiked, of course.

The haze she found herself in after a few sips was the first sign of trouble. The second was the rough wrenching of her head and the press of a dagger to her throat.

She does not wait for a third.

She fires off a Divine Pulse, takes back as much time as she can. It’s enough to gather everyone and get a head start without arousing suspicion. They were closer to the border, but she was wary of trusting the Adrestian escort that the caravan had arranged. Despite the distance, the monastery would be a better bet and the terrain around the academy was familiar enough to lend an advantage in escaping any pursuers.

It’s the right call.

Imperial troops intercept them at the base of the mountain and the ensuing skirmish separates her from the others. Unable to break enemy lines back to her class, she settles for leading her enemies in a chase through the forest, striking a balance between picking them off when she can and steadily retreating up the mountain. She has confidence that the others would be able to repel the remaining forces between the lot of them. By this time tomorrow, everything would just be another daring endeavor to regale their friends and family with.

_Forget the leave of absence_ , she grumbles, ducking behind a tree to avoid an incoming arrow. _I’m handing in my resignation as soon as I get back._

\--

They finally catch up to her just before dawn.

Her father had trained her well. Any mercenary of his, he had told her once, needed to be worth ten men. And so, ten bodies lay at her feet.

The eleventh, however, is a mage far outside even her sword’s reach and carries one last Meteor tome to spare.

The insufficient range of her weapon aside, Byleth can no longer even recognize where the final threat is coming from anymore. Her body screams in overexertion but, more than that, she had tapped into the Divine Pulse far past a bearable limit. To the enemy, it may have seemed like she possessed instincts bordering on clairvoyance, but they had already mortally wounded her several times over.

_"Remember,"_ Sothis had said, _"while the Divine Pulse is a boon that only a chosen few may wield, its use still exacts a cost."_

To turn back the flow of time was against the natural order. Pivotal to realizing a different outcome thereafter was knowledge, experience of times gone wrong. One needed to recall it all, lest the temporal reversal simply result in some tragedy’s encore.

Every order, every misstep, these were burdens that Byleth had grown used to bearing, even if they had not permanently come to pass. Any leader would be overjoyed with the opportunity to take back plans gone awry, to know for certain the outcome of a risky maneuver sans the consequences. She initially suffered from the guilt of needing to use the skill at all, but had since learned to harness it, spending the time and energy to refine her strategies instead.

More difficult to cope with were the injuries - the slide of steel past armor, the crushing of bone, the agony of all manner of magic. She yet drew breath, but had died a hundred times. Her only relief was that it was a price she bore alone. No one else seemed to remember the wounds they sustained prior to the rewinds.

Now, though, collapsed against a boulder, delirious from exhaustion and wracked with phantom pains, she finds herself truly cornered. Her grasp on the Divine Pulse is tenuous at best and, having acted on instinct for the last several minutes, she could no longer recount the sequence of events necessary to produce a different outcome. Perhaps she had even been down this path several times already.

So, she comforts herself.

The others would be alright. They’d been fine students over the past year and had a house leader like no other. They would make it and they’d go on to do extraordinary things.

_One mercenary for the future of an entire nation_ , she thinks, humor not yet lost, _What a bargain._

She closes her eyes, deadens her senses, and only imagines what might have been.

_"You will come, won't you?"_

No, that’s not quite right.

She wishes.

She wishes so, _so_ desperately that she could be there for the future they had all envisioned. She conjures up visions of the places she’d been given standing invitations to, experiences she had been looking forward to, an era of realized goals and triumphs.

She holds onto these with everything she has left, even as the flames approach, even as a heat like no other engulfs her.


	2. mourning glories in purgatory [part i]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't think of a better day than today to continue this story. I hope everyone's still as excited as I am for the game, even though its impending release brings my self-imposed deadline closer and closer!
> 
> Enjoy!

The chill is a welcome relief.

Perhaps her body was shutting down, attempting to shield her from the agony of incineration. Even the fragmented sensations of her would-be wounds have left her. She relaxes, the last fleeting pieces of her consciousness finally ebbing away. Her breathing steadies, her exhales curling up to a sky resplendent in shifting curtains of fluorescent green.

It is like this that they find her.

\--

He does not believe his eye.

The expression Sylvain had been wearing when he had run up to Dimitri in the hall had immediately set him on edge. Was it another raid at the border? Had the new supply route been cut? It could be all manner of things nowadays.

He certainly hadn’t anticipated this though, couldn’t have dreamed it up if he tried.

He had arrived to the guest room in record time, catching himself on the door frame with a bang. As his ragged breaths punctuate the silence, he takes everything in. Mercedes is at the bedside, the glow of white magic dissipating from her hands as she turns towards the commotion. The figure propped up on the bed does the same.

“A visitor?” the patient greets, gaze tracking to the threshold.

But her eyes do not meet his, they’re unfocused, unnaturally so.

He’s rendered speechless long enough for Mercedes to usher him back into the hall. “Is it-,” he asks, “Is it truly her?”

“Yes,” she confirms, hastily shutting the door, “Yes, it is, but Your Highness, you have to listen to me. She’s-”

“She’s blind,” he finishes. “Do you know why? I didn’t see any obvious injuries.”

“No,” Mercedes says, “Aside from exhaustion and dehydration, there isn’t anything physically wrong with her. She needs rest badly, but-”

“Understood,” he replies, already shifting around her to grab the door handle, “I’ll keep my visit brief.”

Mercedes halts him, the hand on his arm firm. “Dimitri,” she says, forgoing formalities, voice grave and laden with urgency, “her eyesight isn’t the only issue.”

\--

A ghost in his own body, he returns, the door a gentle click behind him. By the time he comes to, he finds himself in the chair Mercedes had vacated, staring at the sheets of the occupied bed. For all his desperation just minutes ago, he can’t even look at her now. He can only lean forward, head dropping to his hands.

Five years.

Five years of _nothing_.

Like her blindness, the cause of her amnesia was uncertain. There was no evidence of head trauma, new or otherwise, nor traces of any known toxin or hex. Struggling with how to gently break the truth to her, Mercedes had not yet broached the topic prior to his arrival. And so, their old teacher remained unaware of everything since that disastrous mission - the mounting political tensions, the shattering of peace, the battles that raged across the continent.

All the things he had _done_.

“Welcome back,” she greets, eyes closed this time. “Sorry about earlier, it must’ve been unsettling seeing my eyes like that. I keep forgetting that it doesn’t matter if I open them right now.” She pauses, waiting for him to respond.

He keeps his head in his hands. His impulsiveness had driven him back into the room, a part of him desperate to realize a desire he’d long ago accepted as unattainable, but it took him no further. Because what is there to say here, in this room, in Blaiddyd, in the middle of a war she has no inkling of?

“Now, let’s see,” she presses on, “I only know one person who keeps quiet while giving off so much stress. It must be you, right, Dimitri?”

He shudders at that, whole-body and bone deep, shaking exhale muffled by his hands.

His name.

His name and she says it as she always had.

\--

“Dimitri,” she deadpans.

His teacher is leveling an impressive glare at him from across the table. It was a fairly severe look, though its effect was rather diminished by the fact that it was being given over the delicate china of a monastery tea set and Annette’s latest confections.

“You’re the last one,” she continues, “I even have Dedue, _Dedue_ , calling me by name now.”

“Quite the accomplishment indeed,” he acknowledges while sliding forward his empty teacup and its saucer. Today’s blend was quite good. “However, that’s his prerogative, just as it is mine, _Professor_.”

“But being called that makes me feel so _old_.” Even as she grouses, she refills his cup, topping it off with milk and sugar before he can reach for either. “I’m younger than Mercedes and you have no trouble using her name.”

“Mercedes is a classmate,” he reasons, accepting the drink, ”it’d be rather alienating to refer to her as Miss von Maltritz all the time, don’t you think?”

She jabs the air between them with her fork. “Hold on! We’ve taken plenty of seminars together! After all, who was it that kept you from nodding off when Alois started rambling yesterday?”

“Mm,” Dimitri hums, bringing the cup to his lips, “it certainly couldn’t have been the same person who Sir Seteth was trying to hunt down last month when his sister expressed an interest in mercenary work.”

She freezes, letting out a strangled sort of sound.

“No, definitely not the one who had to hide out in someone else’s room and be snuck food the entire day to avoid his wrath before Her Grace calmed it.”

Visibly deflating at his airtight rebuttal, his professor settles for digging into her slice of cake and he’s finally able to take a sip of his drink. It’s perfect as always.

He considers her over his teacup.

It isn’t just his role as a representative of Faerghus that dictates him to stand on propriety. It isn’t even the juvenile delight of not giving her something that she kept insisting upon.

He wanted to be worthy of it, using her name.

Despite the abruptness of her appointment, she had been a dedicated mentor. He saw it in her patient explanations, her earnest requests for feedback, her sincere attempts to know each of the Blue Lions both academically and personally. They were lucky to have her.

But, at her dejected expression, he figures he can at least let her in on his plan.

“Graduation,” he says.

“Hm?” He’s caught her in the middle of a bite.

“I’ll call you by name once I’ve graduated.”

She hurriedly swallows, as if any delay in her response will cause him to retract his declaration. “Really? You will?” she asks, excitement flooding her voice. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he replies, chuckling at the unadulterated thrill in her expression.

\--

“Dimitri,” she repeats. “It’s alright, I made it.”

He looks up and really takes her in this time - her gentle cheer, the calm she exudes, her. Honestly, just her.

As drained as she is, she holds out her arms in a song and dance of days long past, for when any Blue Lion had tread too close to death. “See for yourself,” she says.

He does, if only just barely, trembles as if she might break like all the fragile things he hates.

“I’m here,” she soothes.

_She is, she is, she is._

He makes his choice.

“Professor,” he finally greets, the title rough with a disuse he hopes she mistakes for grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	3. peace rose from brambles red [part i]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eleven days left to speculate on what kind of pain playing this game will cause!
> 
> Enjoy!

“Apologies, Hubert, if you could repeat that once more?”

He has just as much trouble saying it the second time. “The person Linhardt found this morning...it’s the professor. It’s Professor Byleth.”

Her eyes do not leave the treaty she’s been reviewing. “I see,” she says, letting the news sink in.

Hubert does not lie. Or rather, he does not lie to her. And he would never make such an outlandish statement without confirming its validity himself, which only meant one thing.

He certainly believed that a woman near half a decade dead had been discovered between the rose hedges of the imperial garden.

“And her condition?”

“Still unconscious, but stable,” he supplies, “Manuela didn’t find anything particularly alarming, but we’ll know more once she wakes up.”

She gives a hum of acknowledgement before silence lapses over the room once more.

“Shall I...alert the infirmary of when you’ll be by?”

“No need,” she replies without hesitation. She could hardly justify a visit with her schedule as packed as it was, and she tells her vassal as much.

As Emperor of the Adrestian Empire, she had more pressing matters to attend to.

\--

There was so much to do.

Weekly conversation practice with Petra, dinner duty in the evening, the study session with Hubert for their upcoming practical.

And yet, here she was, after class with Professor Byleth. She wasn’t entirely surprised though. Her attention hadn’t been the best this past week, her mind preoccupied with other matters despite her efforts to make it otherwise. 

“Thanks for your patience,” her teacher starts, binding together the last sheaf of papers on her desk and setting them aside.

“Quite alright,” Edelgard responds, “How may I assist you, Teacher?”

“Well, a lot of things have been going on and we haven’t had the chance to chat lately,” the professor explains. “I just wanted to touch base with you to see how everything is going.”

“Of course,” she says, trying to recall her housemates’ current endeavors. “Your recent insights have been helpful for exploring new areas of our development. Bernadetta has been volunteering in the stables more often now that she is used to the horses. And Ferdinand has remained very...committed to the regimen you designed to improve his mobility in heavy armor.”

The professor chuckles a bit at her last statement. “And you?”

“The books you recommended on anima magic have been most instructive. Should the need arise, I’m confident I’ll be able to make use of it during our future excursions.”

“I look forward to it,” her teacher responds. "Anything else I should be aware of?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” she answers. “Although, if you would like a more detailed report on our progress, I can have one to you by next week.”

Professor Byleth holds up a hand. “No, no, that’s fine,” she assures. “There’s just been some concern among the staff about my lack of teaching experience, so I wanted to make sure you’re all happy with your education here so far.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Edelgard argues before she can help herself, “It’s been ages since your instatement and our missions have been nothing but successful since then. To cite your prior profession as a deficit is the height of hypocrisy when Lady Shamir has already demonstrated the unique insight a mercenary might carry. And having been one for a sizable portion of your life, your age should be of little consequence. Furthermore-”

She continues to thoroughly refute all of the snide remarks and disgruntled whispers she had caught wind of recently. She’s out of breath by the end of it all, grievances aired and no closer to being addressed. She feels better, though, lighter than she has in days.

And Professor Byleth is smiling. “I’ll be sure to bring up those points at the next faculty meeting,” she says. She pauses for a moment before continuing, “You’ve given this a lot of thought.” 

Edelgard glances away, suddenly embarrassed and feeling a little bit like she had been tricked. “Just...just the standard amount.”

“I appreciate your standard amount of thought then,” her professor replies, sincerity and amusement evenly distributed in the statement. “Edelgard, if you ever find yourself getting to this point again, where you’re so stressed that it’s affecting your daily routine, please talk to someone. I’m sure your housemates would be happy to listen.”

The ensuing silence speaks volumes about what Edelgard thinks of that particular course of action.

“And, of course, my door is always open,” her professor adds.

That, at least, doesn’t sound too bad.

“Thank you, Teacher,” she replies, turning to face her again, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

\--

It is another several days before Edelgard sees her teacher again.

Somehow, things were ahead of schedule. She has a sneaking suspicion that Hubert has something to do with the unusual lull in activity, but he denies any involvement.

“Would that I could lighten your burden at my will, Your Majesty,” he says, his characteristically wry tone only unusual in that it was directed at her. “I’ve received word that Professor Byleth awoke this morning. Manuela should be assessing her as we speak.”

“I see,” she says, rising from her desk. “I’ll take an early lunch with her then. Instruct the kitchens to prepare something light, but nutritious.”

“As you wish. I’ll be along with it shortly.”

And if Edelgard takes the long way around, well, the only one that would have actually questioned her about it would have to answer some of her own first. Crossing the threshold, she spots her immediately, a benefit of being the only patient currently housed in the infirmary. She’s reading something, her brow furrowed in concentration.

“Teacher,” she calls as she enters, the echoing of her heels reverberating with each step.

No reaction. Perhaps she hadn’t spoken loudly enough?

“Teacher,” she says again, coming to a stop beside her bed.

Still, she does not react, does not so much as even spare her a glance.

A rage sparks within her, white-hot and ugly. Because how dare she? How dare she ignore her after all this time? How dare she ignore her after showing up out of nowhere unannounced and making a complete mockery of palace security? Unclenching her teeth, Edelgard readies to call her again when the realization hits her.

_She knows._

Her teacher had survived somehow, was here, in the flesh. Of course she knew.

_No. No, no, no, no._

She had to fix this, she had to explain. Surely, her teacher would understand.

Surely, she would forgive her.

She reaches out.

\--

Byleth is startled out of her reading by a hand on her shoulder. Looking up from the list of events she’s apparently missed over the past five years, she sees that it’s just Manuela. The older woman gives her a smile and gestures with the tuning fork she’d been able to dig up.

Hubert drops by with lunch. As her old colleague fills him in on the situation, Byleth tests her stomach on the vegetable soup he’s brought.

Edelgard never visits and her tray remains untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Who could be up next...? And what state will Byleth be in this time...?


	4. here my tulips lie [part i]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your support so far! Six more days!
> 
> Enjoy!

She comes to with a start, her mind moving a mile a minute.

The ambushes, the separation from her class, the arduous chase along the mountain -

There’s a sudden shuffle of movement.

_Move, movemovemove…!_

She catches the person off guard, barreling into them with all of her weight and sending them both to the ground. That her opponent is quick enough to break their fall only amplifies her panic.

_Male. Lean. Trained._

She is able to get her hands around his throat, but, even fueled by adrenaline, her muscles burn with overexertion and her grip isn’t nearly as tight as it should be. Her eyes finally adjust and she realizes that the person she’s strangling bears a striking resemblance to one of her students.

“Teach,” he wheezes, “ _Teach!_ ”

It _is_ one of her students.

\--

“Teach,” Claude calls, walking into the classroom, “you got a sec? I wanted to go over some things from yesterday’s mission.” She’s at her desk skimming the contents of a small card, a common scene as of late. “Another? How many does that make now? A dozen?”

“This one would be number...sixteen, I think,” she replies after a moment.

He gives a low whistle in amazement. Truly, the power of a young, single professor knew no bounds. “That must be some kind of record.”

“And I’ve still got another day left, too,” she sighs, retrieving some stationery from a side drawer. “At least I know exactly what to write now.”

“Why do you even bother?” he asks, leaning over her desk to snatch up the latest note. He fails to stifle a snicker at the excessively florid language. “These guys never even have the guts to ask you in person.”

His professor plucks the cardstock from his fingers just as quickly. “Because it’s the polite thing to do,” she answers, “And they deserve to know as soon as possible that I won’t be available.”

“What? Your dance card already full up?”

She gives a small huff of laughter as she returns to her writing. “The opposite, actually.”

“I see, I see,” he says, nodding in understanding, “No one’s met your standards yet.”

“Don’t worry, you and the others meet my standards every day,” she replies.

Oh, now that wasn’t fair at all.

“Aw, Teach, you know flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

“Good thing I’m telling the truth then,” she responds with ease.

He has to force himself to not put his face into his hands and sink to the floor right then and there. She hadn’t even been looking at him, still focused on penning her response as she was. He really should be used to this by now, her and her casual sincerity. He’s so distracted that he almost misses the rest of her reply.

“And no,” she continues, “I just don’t plan on dancing.”

Now he was just appalled. “You aren’t going to dance? Teach, that’s pretty much the entire point of a ball.”

“Not for someone that doesn’t know how to,” she responds, “I’ll be there since I have to be a chaperone, but I’ll just be eating and chatting a little.”

“Nope. No way. Absolutely not,” he says. Claude rounds her desk and pulls her to her feet. “There’s no time to waste,” he declares, placing her left hand on his shoulder before taking up her other in his own, “You’ve got less than 24 hours to learn how to waltz, at the very least.”

“Didn’t you come here for something a bit more serious?” she laughs, though she doesn’t pull away.

She’s a quick study and, in the end, he’s able to teach her the basic steps to the four styles that will be rotating throughout the event.

At the ball, he’s only able to bear being her partner for the first song. He spends the rest of the night dancing around her instead.

\--

Surprise wasn’t something he entertained these days.

It simply wasn’t worth it, getting worked up over something as mundane as shattered expectations of reality. What will be, will be, and all that. All you could do was take what you got and keep moving forward.

So, obviously, he hadn’t been surprised.

He had found her in the alcove at the top of the observatory, the one with the best view of the moon during this time of year. She’d been nestled among the pillows in the cushioned corner like she belonged there, would have had it not been for the stained armor she wore and her signature sword lying on the floor from where it’d evidently slipped from her slack grip.

All things considered, he couldn’t argue with her taste. There really was no better place on the estate to take a nap.

So, he had set her sword aside and settled in at the other end of the alcove. It was a little inconvenient only using moonlight to map out new trade routes, but he made do and had even gotten through most of his work before she had woken up. Sure, their brief scuffle hadn’t been ideal, but it was certainly understandable given the circumstances.

To her credit, she lets go of him as soon as she hears his voice. A few gasping coughs and gulps of air and he’s good as new.

He turns back to her and tenses up as he registers her hands reaching for him again, his own quickly rising to prevent an encore performance of the world’s worst hello. She isn’t going for his neck this time though. Her fingertips skim his jaw lightly before she gently cradles his face in both hands, studying it with an unnerving amount of focus. He maintains a light grip on her wrists but otherwise keeps still and grounds himself with the familiar feel of her calloused hands.

After a few more moments though, he can’t help himself because she’s really _here_. “Teach, I know I said you could, but that was a bit much as a greeting, don’t you think?” he teases, smiling, “At least woo me a little first.”

She smiles right back as she shoves him away and he awaits her response, five years starving for their rapport.

But it never comes.

She opens her mouth several times to respond but only silence greets them. Her hand rises to her own throat this time, her brief expression of happiness slipping into confusion and then horror.

And he still isn’t surprised.

(Well, maybe just a little.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Thus ends all the [part i] sections. Any [part ii] section in particular you're excited to see?


	5. forget me, forget me, forget-me-knot [part ii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the intricacies of speculating about a plot-relevant time-travel power.
> 
> Enjoy!

Sothis has lost count of all the ways she’s seen her die.

Really die, that is. Not merely the close calls remedied by the Divine Pulse.

Cut down as her students watch on in horror. Snapped in twain between the jaws of a Demonic Beast. Impaled in an attempt to protect an ally. Felled by every type of magic imaginable. Sometimes it is slow enough for her to choke out her final words and sometimes it is quick enough that she does not suffer.

She dies a hero and the people generations later still pray to her for strength, for victory. She is executed as a traitor before fading into obscurity.

More than once, in her despair, she turns her blade on herself after the fighting has ended.

Regardless, she never survives past the war.

Of course, more and more of these paths shatter and fade as the year progresses, but her overall fate does not change. Sothis knows she should not be so fixated on this. It was, after all, the destiny of all mortals. What did it matter to her that it was realized sooner than most?

And yet, between her pride and her newfound fondness, Sothis can’t help but keep an eye out for a path with a longer, gentler life.

\--

Honestly, what a troublesome charge.

It could not have been a more mundane action, the acceptance of a standard escort mission. She had barely even been paying attention to Byleth mentioning that she was going to take it on.

The effects had been instantaneous. All of a sudden, her vision was flooded with an explosion of possibilities, her mind overloaded with all the potential ramifications, each more grim than the last. Blindsided as she was, she had even dematerialized from the dormitory. She’s unsure of how much time has passed when she comes to, but she knows it’s too long when she reaches through their bond and finds only the barest wisps of Byleth’s soul.

_Oh. Oh, dear._

Her plane existed parallel to her charge’s own. No matter how far either traveled in their respective realms, the two of them were always less than a hair’s breadth away from each other. At least, they should be.

The question, then, would never be where, but when.

She calms herself, closes her eyes, and visualizes the disarray of futures before her. Concentrating harder for the tug of their bond, she traces her way down a path until she feels their connection once again pull taut, the process surprisingly quick.

_There you are._

Five years, give or take.

The Divine Pulse was already difficult enough to handle when there was an explicit path to follow back, but it was otherwise reliable. Using it to traverse forward in time, however, was a foolishness to the highest degree. Without an anchor, the user could land in any possible future down the line.

And this branch is irritatingly far from the main path.

Worse is the state her soul is in, fractured as it is. She’s sure the effects can’t be convenient. At least the missing piece isn’t far. She can sense it with the lordling that clings to Byleth so, which explains the faint trail that had expedited her search. Their crests must have resonated as the Divine Pulse activated.

_What an utter mess_ , she thinks, letting out a frustrated sigh. _Who do you think you are, making me work this hard?_

Sothis settles back on her throne, cushioning her head on one of its arms and tucking her feet up under herself. She may as well get the rest while she could.

She was going to need it.


	6. mourning glories in purgatory [part ii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw you know you won't be able to play the game anytime soon, so you sink yourself into writing. It still counts as a pre-release fic if you don't play the game, right? Right?
> 
> Enjoy!

Felix is not happy.

This, in of itself, is not an unusual thing. He had mellowed out since graduation, was less aggressive about picking sword fights, but was everfirst to challenge Dimitri during war councils. The others were useless in that regard, either loyal to a fault or too terrified to object. Mercedes was the only exception, though her methods of persuasion required a patience he himself had never cultivated. Face-to-face, sword-to-sword, his honesty was perhaps the only knightly thing about him. That was one thing that hadn’t changed in the intervening years.

 _What the_ hell _are you trying to pull this time?_

Annette had been the one to inform him of the news when he arrived that morning. Each detail was just one sucker punch after another. She and Ashe had found their old teacher passed out just outside the castle as they returned from a patrol. She was fine, Annette had said, before following up with the fact that Byleth was both blind and amnesiac. And, as if that wasn’t enough, she finally told him of the most infuriating piece of information.

They had been ordered not to speak to their former professor of the time she had lost, to pretend as if it were still the week before graduation, that they had found her safe and sound.

To keep a blind woman even more in the dark.

Oh, Annette had rattled off some drivel about how it would be too much to explain everything right now, would be too much to process, would be too shocking while the woman was still adjusting to her newfound blindness; but Felix had already made his decision.

The door he’s looking for is slightly open and he can hear the muffled sounds of conversation. He raises his fist to knock, can at least afford that much courtesy.

Laughter, soft but sincere, breaks out from within the room and he freezes.

Because when was the last time Dimitri had laughed like that?

\--

They get there in time to see her die.

She’s propped up against a boulder, the bodies scattered around her unmoving. If this were any other time, he’d be impressed, would make a note to himself to hassle her later for a play-by-play on how she had bested so many foes on her own. For now, though, Felix can admit, at least to himself, that he’s just glad to see her alive. Between Dedue nearly losing his arm and Ingrid recovering from being shot down, there had been too many close calls already. Dimitri’s relief, too, is palpable beside him and the prince rushes forward to their professor, eyes only for her.

It’s why he doesn’t notice the mage.

Felix recognizes the glowing sigils, the spell’s devastating power and range, and how Dimitri is headed right for the strike zone.

There’s no choice. He tackles him to the ground and shields their heads as much as he can in the split-second before the molten rocks slam into the earth. The sheer heat of the attack makes an unseasonably warm spring night completely sweltering. They choke on the air, first, from the dust and, after, from the pungent odor of burning flesh.

Felix hazards a glance from behind his arm. The newly made clearing is still alight in random patches and the boulder at its center is charred black and crumbling. He can tell, even from here, that there won’t be anything left to bury.

“ _Professor!_ ” Dimitri howls, raw and anguished, “ _Professor!_ ” He’s able to throw him off and make it a few feet before Felix can hold him back from rushing headlong into the still burning remains.

He’s never been good with words and isn’t stupid enough to try his luck now, so he lets the prince scream. He wants to, too, because it’s not fair, it’s too cruel. The entire year had been one outlandish ordeal after another, but she’d been there every step of the way, the voice of reason and encouragement both. They had wanted to thank her. They had wanted to make her proud.

Dimitri stills suddenly, eyes spotting something in the distance.

He follows his line of sight. It’s the enemy mage limping off into the forest.

Felix doesn’t hold him back this time.

\--

His hand lowers down to his side in a slow, deliberate motion before he turns back down the hall from where he came, away from the gentle Dimitri that apparently still yet lived and the clueless mentor he still yet respected like no other.

 _Disgusting_ , he thinks.

One week, he decides. He’ll give his friend one week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Even with the game coming out tomorrow, I hope people are still as interested to read this story as I am to write it!


	7. peace rose from brambles red [part ii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the encouragement! It really means a lot to be able to hear what sticks out to you about this story and the things you're looking forward to!
> 
> Enjoy!

[How are you feeling this morning, Professor?]

“Very well,” Byleth replies, “Thank you for asking, Ferdinand. I see your penmanship is as impeccable as ever.” Another note slides over to her from across the table. “And Linhardt,” she laughs, “yours hasn’t improved one bit!”

Beside her, Dorothea is so relieved to hear her in such high spirits.

When Manuela had informed them of her deafness and memory loss, she hadn’t been sure what to expect. Either was distressing enough on its own. She couldn't even begin to imagine the strain of having to deal with both at the same time. What was the right thing to say? Would she even be up to seeing visitors?

“Let me know if I raise my voice too much,” Byleth had requested, her tone almost sheepish.

As if that would be any cause for complaint. As if they hadn’t all resigned themselves to never hearing her voice ever again.

Note passing aside, they fall into conversation easily, catching her up on their lives. And it’s as gratifying as ever to do so. Of all the audiences she’s ever had, Dorothea’s favorite is the woman beside her. Byleth takes everything in with a razor sharp focus, asks the most thoughtful questions, and lets them ramble to their heart’s content.

She cares.

Linhardt is in the middle of explaining his latest research breakthroughs when Dorothea spots Hubert entering the garden. She gives him a wave and lightly touches the other woman’s arm to alert her of the man’s presence.

Byleth looks up from the note she is on. “Hubert! Good morning! Would you like to join us for breakfast?”

“Good morning, Professor,” he replies instinctively before realizing his error. Accepting a quill from Ferdinand, he quickly pens the rest of his response before handing it over.

From her vantage point, Dorothea can easily read the message.

[Thank you, but I’ll have to decline. I’m merely here to notify you that Her Majesty will be unable to see you today. She sends her most sincere apologies.]

Dorothea nearly gives an incredulous snort into her tea, would have were it not for Hubert standing right there.

 _As if_ that’s _what she should be apologizing for._

\--

Edelgard _cannot_ believe they are having this argument again.

“We have to go back for her,” Caspar implores, “She won’t be able to handle that many!”

_Be quiet._

Linhardt nods in agreement. “She’s strong, but she was already hurt before we split up.”

_Stop talking._

Petra and Dorothea, too, step up to voice their support. Bernadetta, anxious for any resolution, and Ferdinand, unconscious from the last skirmish, remain on the sidelines. Only Hubert, ever stalwart, stays by her side.

Edelgard considers her class, the collection of people that fall under the banner of the Black Eagles - nobles, heirs, royalty, and even a commoner of sizable renown. She would be foolish to jeopardize such a network of connections.

“We’ve gone over this,” she replies, voice level only by instinct, “Between the state of our group and our lack of intelligence on the enemy, it’s too risky to look by ourselves.”

She considers her teacher, savior and mentor both.

“At this point, all you’re doing is delaying our return and request for assistance. Any more of this and I’ll have you all disciplined for insubordination.”

She considers herself, princess of the Adrestian Empire.

“My decision is final.”

She would always hold her blood over that which anyone else had spilled for her, her teacher included. She had to, would never become Emperor by doing otherwise.

_Please, Teacher, hold on just a little while longer. Just a bit-_

A booming crash shakes the mountain, and they all whip their heads towards it. In the distance, a great column of flame rises from the trees.

Logically, Edelgard knows she has no way of confirming whether or not her teacher is caught up in the blaze, that she is anywhere near the fire at all. To worry about such a thing is energy wasted, funneled away from ensuring the group’s safety back to the monastery.

And yet, she can sense it. A vacuum, a hole, has opened up somewhere, someplace intangible. She feels it in the aether. She knows it in her heart.

No longer is her teacher of this world.

\--

Dorothea eyes the balcony overlooking the garden. She knows for a fact whose office it connects to, had been in it a number of times over the past several years herself. Its windows are open, though she doubts it’s to let in the cool spring breeze.

Well, if Her Majesty wasn’t going to grace them with her presence, who was Dorothea to argue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was definitely a challenge balancing everything going on in Edelgard's mind - just this part had to be rewritten so many times.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Who will be the next to guest star?


	8. here my tulips lie [part ii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious to see if anyone correctly guessed the guest star this time.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Mage, ten o’clock!” Leonie shouts.

“On it!” Claude answers.

 _Too far_ , Lorenz thinks, _We’re still too far._

Despite Leonie’s quick tracking of their professor’s trail and their nearly foolhardy pace following it, they had only just made it close enough to spot the enemy. The dense forest greatly impeded any long-range attacks that could cover the distance, but moving in further would cost precious moments their teacher did not have. There were no good choices and even less time to make one.

Of course, their house leader, ever spitting in the face of convention, ever greedy, chooses both. Without breaking his pace, Claude lines up the impossible shot. In an impressive display of marksmanship, the arrow strikes true and with enough force to pin the enemy to a nearby tree.

But it isn’t enough.

The mage finishes the last of the Meteor incantation through pained gasps and the spell proceeds unabated. They all skid to a halt, the intense flare forcing them to shield their eyes.

The blaze calms shortly thereafter, but they end up just standing there, staring. The attack had decimated the area, razed it to the ground. The only sign of their teacher is the boulder she had been collapsed against. It still stands, if only just barely, but nothing resembling a human, dead or alive, graces its surface.

Lorenz has seen a number of things die over the past year, humans and beasts alike. He’s even seen them die in a variety of ways. He’s never seen someone eradicated so thoroughly before.

“Leonie, Lorenz,” Claude calls, back facing them. “Stick together and secure the perimeter.” His voice is steady and boasts its usual levity as he approaches the mage still trapped against the tree. “Our new friend and I,” he says, stowing his bow and unsheathing his dagger, “are going to have a little _chat_.”

\--

There’s something different about Claude today.

At this point, keeping an eye on him is second nature. It was a habit he had picked up back in their academy days, back when he was on the lookout for any fumbles the Riegan heir might let him capitalize on. It had been a passing suggestion from his father, but Lorenz had quickly become invested in the practice. His own ambitions aside, how was he supposed to entrust the future of the Leicester Alliance to so flippant a noble? And while the past several years had not exactly exacerbated his worries, Lorenz remained vigilant. For the good of their nation, of course.

So, he’s confident in his observation.

The others attending the quarterly conference of Leicester nobles don’t appear to find anything amiss with their leader’s demeanor, but it’s something about the way he carries himself. Claude is still easy-going, sociable, still smiles while maintaining pleasantries or dispensing barbs tempered by humor. And yet, there’s a certain energy, an air of giddiness, with which he acts. There’s also the high collar he wears, unusual considering the warm weather. If this were anyone else, Lorenz would suspect that he had met someone.

But this is Claude.

Claude, who meticulously planned things down to the letter. Claude, who only ever revealed what he wanted known. Claude, whose empathy was oft another weapon in his arsenal more than anything else.

Lorenz waits until after the day’s proceedings to question him. They end early, exceptionally so, expedited as they had been with their leader running the meeting. In fact, he’s almost in a hurry to leave, forgoing his usual tendency to mill around and converse with anyone of interest.

“A book,” Claude answers over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

And suddenly, everything falls into place. Lorenz recalls seeing this behavior now.

It was just after midterms when the package came in, a gift from Claude’s family for his success at the academy thus far. It was a thick volume of poetry, quite old, but painstakingly restored to the point that the pages themselves were works of art. It was one of the few belongings Claude owned that actually befitted the image of a noble. He had carted it around everywhere the first few days afterwards, so engrossed with it as he was. Professor Byleth had even indulgently allowed him to read it during lecture when he could still answer questions at the drop of a hat.

“Well,” Lorenz says, “if it has you this excited, it must really be something.”

“Sure is,” Claude replies, waving a hand in goodbye, but not bothering to turn back.

The abrupt dismissal would rankle, but Lorenz lets it slide. At least the other man was doing something suited to his station.

\--

He makes it back to the estate in record time, finds her in the library straining to grab a book just out of reach. He thinks back to his exchange with Lorenz, to his truthful lie. He considers her - spine ramrod straight, full of thoughts, but no voice to speak of.

That’s fine though, he decides, finally crossing the threshold to lend her a hand.

He’s always been an avid reader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends all the [part ii] sections, also known as the [questionable decisions] sections. At this point, who's the most shady one here?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	9. forget me, forget me, forget-me-knot [part iii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your continued support! Being able to funnel my excitement for this game into writing this makes my own wait to play it more bearable.
> 
> Enjoy!

“You okay there?” her father asks.

They had saved the three most important heirs in Fódlan. Her back still ached from where the axe that did not in fact kill her had been buried. A girl with the biggest ego to size ratio she had ever met had started living in her head. And now the archbishop of the continent’s reigning religion had invited her to teach warfare to a class of students no more than a handful of years her junior.

“I’m...still processing everything,” Byleth replies.

“That’s fair,” he concedes. “What’s eating at you the most right now?”

 _Everything_ , she thinks.

But she could ruminate later. For now, she has two decisions to make, though the first isn’t really up for debate. After all, the archbishop isn’t someone she can actually refuse. So, that only leaves the one.

“The teaching position,” Byleth answers. “What do you think? Any preferences? Would it be helpful to teach one class over another?”

“For us?” he responds, crossing his arms in thought. “They all have their benefits. If you get in good with the prince, Faerghus might be willing to grant us clearance more quickly whenever work brings us there.”

She recalls Dimitri, his earnest eyes at odds with his recklessness on the battlefield.

“The Black Eagles wouldn’t be a bad choice either since most of our contracts come from clients in the Adrestian Empire.”

She thinks of Edelgard, intense, proud, always the first to extol the virtues of her nation.

“And we’ve always had to compete with other mercenary groups for jobs from the Leicester Alliance, so the extra negotiating edge would be nice.”

And then, there is Claude, whose empty smiles were well-matched with his hollow words.

“So, you’re saying it doesn’t matter.”

He sighs. “I’m saying that you don’t need to worry about our mercenary work. I’m returning to the Knights of Seiros for the time being anyway, so you’re free to pick whichever group you want. Anyone stand out?”

“Mm, in their own ways,” she replies. That none of them are particularly good goes unsaid.

“Look,” her father says, rummaging through the pouch at his hip and producing a die, “if it really doesn’t matter to you one way or another, just decide with this and get it over with. Don’t lose any more sleep over it. That’ll be common enough once you start teaching.”

She shoots him a flat look as she accepts the object.

He just laughs. “What? How did you think I felt when you started helping out?” he asks. “I know you. No matter which class you choose, you’ll give it your all. And that includes worrying over your students.”

She eyes the die in her hand before finally giving it a toss onto a nearby table. Her father is right.

What difference did it make?

\--

When Sothis next wakes, she knows she’s arrived in the correct time.

Byleth’s soul is once again within reach. Well, the major portions of it, at least. The lordling still holds the stolen fragment despite its natural inclination to return to her ward. Even with the pieces so close together, the separation is enough to prevent her from contacting Byleth in the usual way.

 _What arrogance_ , she grumbles and ponders her options.

Byleth could not stay here. Even if she recovered the hoarded fragment, the damage had already been done. Such a visceral, clumsy theft had left the stolen piece fragile and the timeline littered with shards of her essence. They would have to take the long way back, follow the trail of stardust across the years, but this was not what concerned her. If this continued on, the missing piece would ultimately dissipate, forever lost to the aether. The larger portion would last longer due to its size, but it, too, would eventually follow suit.

Sothis briefly glances down the array of fates to confirm her prediction.

 _Oh?_ she thinks, _How curious._

She’s correct, of course, regarding the state of Byleth’s soul, but is surprised to find how serene a number of her ends are now. It isn’t all of them, it isn’t even that many and she still dies, as all mortals do, as all mortals must.

But she lives past the war, no longer perishes on account of it.

Sometimes it is by nature of being kept out of the situation entirely, but it is not a necessity. And while her times down these paths are still shorter than most, they are infinitely kinder than the fates she had been heading towards thus far. If she is lucky, she does not suffer the sudden, brutal exits Sothis had become accustomed to seeing. Instead, the fading of her soul brings about a gradual decline that heralds her end long in advance. And while the grief of her loved ones is no less, it is at the very least tempered by the chance to properly channel it.

_But why? What’s changed?_

Mending Byleth’s soul would be easy enough once they traversed back upstream. Unimpeded, the slivers of her spirit would readily be absorbed. Sothis is more interested in how the jump had so greatly altered her charge’s possible destinies and, more than that, how to go about replicating it.

_What difference did it make?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could Sothis be onto?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	10. mourning glories in purgatory [part iii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tfw Life's got you in a headlock, but you still wanna write the fic.
> 
> Enjoy!

He takes his meals with her when he can.

It’s not without its challenges. He nearly fumbles her tea during their first breakfast together, is halfway to putting a cube of sugar in before it occurs to him that he isn’t certain anymore whether she usually took any. He does, however, recall her penchant for sweets and takes a gamble. To his relief, she drinks it without complaint.

Still, it makes him wonder what else he’s forgotten in her absence.

He realizes now that only the memories of her gaze - the one that always saw the best in him, that always saw the person he strived to be - are crystal clear. They had kept him safe over the years and it seemed he, in turn, had done the same by constantly revisiting them. But she was more that, _is_ more than that. So, he watches her, relearns her, even discovers a thing or two his adolescent mind had never registered.

He’s glad that he can pass off his attentiveness as guilt over her current condition. Not that there isn’t plenty of that, too. He had been too hasty back then, had slaughtered their only lead in his frenzied despair. Felix had searched what was left of the body afterwards to no avail and efforts by the Knights of Seiros in the days that followed were similarly fruitless. The only definitive fact was that corpses hailing from all three nations littered the side of the mountain. Even the Church had not had the resources to carry out such a large-scale investigation covertly, and openly publicizing the circumstances of the event would undoubtedly have shaken the continent’s delicate political equilibrium. In the end, all that remained was a grave empty and justice unfulfilled.

It’s with a sizable distaste that he responds to his professor’s inquiries with the same words he had received back then. That Her Grace was investigating it, that she would inform them of any breakthroughs as soon as possible. It’s after one such exchange that she requests something of him instead.

“Are you finished eating?” she asks.

He had been for a while now, was nursing a cup of coffee as he sat back and observed her as he was wont to this past week. “I am,” he answers.

“Good,” she replies before reaching across the table, palms face up. “Hands,” she says.

What a nostalgic request.

\--

The blood still won’t come off.

Technically, the mission had been a success. The bandits that had been raiding the nearby trade route would trouble merchants no more, and he and the Blue Lions had returned to the academy in record time. Everyone was likely in the dining hall enjoying a hot meal right about now, a tradition as of late.

But he couldn’t make an appearance like this.

He had been up to his elbows in gore by the end of their excursion. The only saving grace was that the professor had been on the other side of the battlefield, giving him time to conceal the evidence of his savagery beneath his traveling cloak before they regrouped and return to his room unassailed. His gloves, already cracking from overuse, were a lost cause and his gauntlets had taken ages to clean. But no matter how hard he scrubs his skin, the blood still clings to him.

He’s so distraught that he doesn’t hear the knocks at his bedroom door or the turning of its knob. What he does register is the call of his name, the distress that accompanies it more at home on the battlefield or in the infirmary.

He jerks his head up and his stomach drops in horror at the sight. The professor, a bundle in her arms, stands stock-still, staring. He rises to meet her, hides his hands behind his back as if that will save him, save one of the few fragile things he had yet to break.

“Professor-”

He needs to think of something, anything, an explanation, an excuse. But all he can recall is those bandits, how they’d bragged, how they’d _gloated_ over their atrocities as they had passed his hiding spot. Monsters, the lot of them, beasts to be purged, so that the weak might again know peace-

But then, they bled red, just the same as everyone else.

“Professor, I-”

“Sit,” she bids, her voice more tactician now than teacher. He sinks back down to his bed while she pulls his desk chair over. “Hands,” she says next, her own outstretched to meet them.

He hesitates. He wants to refuse, his mouth halfway open to do just that, but the look in her eyes quashes such thoughts. So, he holds her gaze long enough to place his hands in her own, but not a moment longer. He can imagine the disgust that will soon take root there well enough on his own.

She sighs, tired and a little sad. “Dimitri,” she says, voice laced with much the same, “why didn’t you tell me you needed healing?”

And it shames him even further, this kindness, this confidence, unadulterated and undeserved. Even red-handed, she still holds him with such care. “None,” he chokes out, “None of it is mine.”

“On the contrary,” she replies, “I’m pretty sure all of it is.” He catches the unmistakable glow of white magic from the corner of his eye. 

_...What?_

He turns back to her, to her hands. One keeps a hold on his own while the other hovers just above his skin. It traces up the length of his forearms, the abrasions along them knitting back together under her care. All that remains are the drying streaks of blood from his self-inflicted wounds. She remedies that, too, wets a handkerchief with water from her flask and wipes the flecks away with ease. Afterwards, she returns to her original position, his hands once more resting in hers.

They sit there in silence for a long moment. He is sure she must have questions, though she certainly doesn’t start with one he expects.

“Dimitri, who am I?”

“...I’m...I’m sorry?” he stutters, looking up from their hands.

She repeats herself without hurry. “Who am I, Dimitri?”

“You...you’re...a professor of the Officer’s Academy,” he responds.

“Almost,” she says, “I’m the professor of the Blue Lions, _your_ professor. I’m here for you to come to with things like this.”

Things like this, things like _this_ , as if this lust for violence could be solved with a lecture series and a certification exam.

“You’re strong, Dimitri. I think you’ve been strong for a very long time.”

He is, he has. He has to be because what other choice is there?

“But I’d like you to remember how to be weak.”

He never realized it was something he could forget how to do. Is it even something he is still allowed to be, blood-stained as he is?

“Do you think you can do that for me?”

And yet, how can he deny her when she asks so sincerely, when she holds his wretched hands like they are something to be cherished?

He’ll try. He can try.

“I’m scared,” he chokes out. “I’m terrified that one day I’ll forget why we do what we must, that I’ll relish in taking life instead of protecting it. That I’ll find myself steeped in blood and savor in it.”

There’s more, there’s so much more, but he did not grow strong in a single day and neither can he shed it all at a moment’s notice. But it’s a start. And the professor - his professor - listens. When he can bear to be weak no longer, she presses her water flask into his hands, sets the bundle she had brought in on his lap and unties it to reveal a bread bowl filled with stew. Then she talks, recounts her mercenary days, her own struggles with taking life for coin and little else.

Before she leaves, his professor has him promise her two things - that he would allow her to check his hands after their missions and that he would learn how to be weak again. The first is more a relief to fulfill than anything else and the second he agrees to so long as he can carry it out under the safety of her gentle gaze.

\--

As she listens to him shed his gauntlets, she wonders if he’s reminiscing, too. When he gives her his hands, they feel heavy as always, fragile as always. And with them, she feels something, something shapeless but undeniably vital, return to her very core. A quiet homecoming that’s just her style.

“Today’s the day, isn’t it? Graduation, I mean,” she says as she carries out her inspection, lightly skimming the skin of his forearm with her fingers. She feels him jolt a bit, hears his quick inhale as she passes over the thin skin of his wrist.

“...It is,” he answers, the tremble in his voice too wounded to simply be due to her ministrations.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” She switches to his other arm and is pleased to find it similarly intact.

His laugh, too, is a hurt thing, festering in a way that only long-held grief could cause. “I beg to differ, Professor. The year flew by far too quickly.”

Her examination complete, she cradles his hands in her own, lightly presses her thumbs into his palms. She anchors him in the same breath she uses to steel herself. “Just the one?”

His fingers twitch at that, but he doesn’t answer.

That’s alright. She can wait.

“What gave it away?” he finally asks instead and now he only sounds so, so tired.

She thinks of the bizarre need for such thick blankets in what had been an unseasonably hot spring, the school bell she hasn’t heard in days. She thinks of Annette’s nervous laughter, Ashe’s unusually deep voice, and Felix’s absence.

She thinks of Dimitri, who could never handle the pungent aroma of coffee.

“The tea,” she answers, “I don’t take any sugar in my tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It looks like Felix won't have to intervene after all!
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


	11. peace rose from brambles red [part iii]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life's been tough, but know that I'm always thinking of this fic and how there are people that still follow it despite the irregular updates.
> 
> Enjoy!

She lives a life dyed in red.

The challenge is that some of the blood is hers and the problem is that most of it isn’t. The tragedy is that it all stains the same and the goal is to somehow make all of this worth it.

So, Edelgard prepares. She learns to watch, to be wary, to find which walls to keep her back to. She works every waking moment, knows that to waste the present is to forfeit the future, knows that only by seizing today could one ensure tomorrow. This is her life, her day-to-day, her tightrope walk across a dagger’s edge, her daunting climb up a spider’s thread.

Teacher, too, is dyed in red.

It’s in the way she holds her classes, how she favors demonstration and practice over lecture and theory. It’s in the way she holds her sword, how she moves it as naturally as any other part of her body. It’s in the way she holds herself, as if nothing could move her from this plane unless she willed it. It’s this, more than anything else, that tempts Edelgard to reach for her, so that she might hold her, as well.

Then came the offer to listen to her woes, to hear her out. It starts out small - a comment over tea, a complaint during cooking duty, a nagging concern across the calm face of the monastery’s pond. She grows accustomed to the hums of acknowledgement and the little filler statements that let her know she still has her professor’s ear, but their sessions are otherwise one-sided. One day, after airing her grievances but finding herself unwilling to leave just yet, she brings this up.

“Does it bother you?” Teacher asks, eyes tracking the bobbing motion of her fishing lure.

“Not particularly,” she replies, “Only...most others usually offer insight in conversations like this.” Well, perhaps that was a bit unfair. After all, it was Hubert’s role as her advisor to do such a thing.

“Were you looking for any?”

Edelgard pauses. “...No,” she says and then, “Do you find that...strange?”

“No,” she echoes. “Sometimes it’s enough that someone else knows what you’re going through, don’t you think?”

It’s then that she decides she’ll tell her everything - about this land and her plans for it - because she knows Teacher will listen, will understand. But not now, not here, where the Church looms over them all, as if emulating the Goddess might better demonstrate its devotion. No, the walls here were too thin, too suspect for talks like this. So, Edelgard tells her of the palace and its rose garden and how the tea harvested from it would be ready in the spring and won’t she visit just once after graduation before the new term starts? Teacher, of course, agrees, and all that’s left to do is wait.

She wishes she hadn’t.

The morning after - after the mission, after the ambush, after the escape, after, after, after - offers little relief and even fewer answers. None of the identifiable corpses are the professor’s and the Church ultimately declares that she must be one of the charred bodies in the burnt out clearing, her sword lost to the flames or carried off by their attackers.

Some days, she wishes she had seen how she’d fallen. But wishes were worthless things, especially towards the past and even more so for the dead. And so, the nightmares come. And she sees her fight and fight and fight. And she sees her kill and kill and kill. Teacher does it all, in spite of the weapons that find their marks and the magic that strikes true and the blood that soaks through, through, through. But the fire always finds her.

And Teacher dies and dies and dies in red.

\--

It is not yet noon and her waste bin is already filled to the brim with parchment. Half bear apologies that don’t ring true and the remainder hold explanations that fall exceptionally flat. It’s bizarre. Imperial missives and other official documents had never been half as challenging as this. But then, there was no wrong way to write them. Because that was what happened when you ruled an empire - there was neither right nor wrong, only what was and would be. But though Teacher is the subject, she is not hers and so, for the first time in ages, Edelgard is at a loss.

It’s been two weeks. She had yet to reveal herself, but neither could she completely stay away from the miraculous reality that was the professor’s return. It’s a compromise.

(It is torture.)

That first day, it truly was unintentional. It had been uncomfortably humid that morning and Hubert’s suggestion to open the windows was perfectly reasonable. What she hadn’t realized before was how well sound carried from the courtyard below. What she hadn’t realized before was how much she could miss someone’s voice. The windows to her office have been opened every morning since.

They’ve fallen into a pattern. Teacher takes breakfast in the garden and Hubert sends along her apologies. He refuses an invitation to sit and promises to carry back her continued desire to meet. He returns and Edelgard gives him the same answer as always. She finds comfort in the repetition - it reminds her that Teacher is here and is patient as ever.

That’s why the scraping of stone is new.

“I’m so glad you have a bit of time today. I’ve been wanting to catch up with you.”

Her quill stills, ink bleeding heavy as her heart upon the page.

It had always been a worry of hers, that Hubert forwent his own happiness whilst serving her. Of course, it’s far within his rights to spend some time with their old professor. He, too, had been her student, an exceptional one at that, his skepticism developing into genuine respect over the course of the year. He had even remarked once that he was impressed by her tutelage in the arcane arts despite Teacher only truly dabbling in white magic herself.

And yet, he had refrained all this time from accepting the breakfast invitations, and Edelgard has the startling realization that that - his steady companionship in even this small way - was what had made hearing Teacher socialize with the others bearable. So, for him to break the routine the three of them had established is...is…

_It’s fine_ , she thinks, _it’s fine, it’s only fair._

It takes a bit, but she finally starts to believe herself as the conversation outside continues.

“Hubert, please be honest. What are the chances that Edelgard will see me sometime soon?”

This time her entire body freezes. Oh...oh, she doesn’t like that tone at all.

“I figured as much.”

It sounds like surrender, resignation, a white flag after months of siege.

“You’ve all been very kind and I’d hate to overstay my welcome. Linhardt’s offered to take me with him when he returns home later this morning. He thinks my Crest might have something to do with the amnesia.”

She nearly trips in her rush over to the balcony, is saved only by catching herself on the railing. She spots them immediately, their profiles clear in the morning sun. 

“I would’ve liked to have spoken with Edelgard before I left, but I understand that she’s busier than ever now.”

She wants to scream, wants to shout, but hasn’t the words because she thought that didn’t matter. She thought she still had _time_.

Since when has she been such a fool? Since when has she been such a coward?

“Please give her my thanks for her generosity.”

Edelgard turns on her heel.

She can’t keep her waiting any longer.

\--

Hubert spies Her Majesty depart from the balcony. Under normal circumstances, he’d never allow the cause of such grief go unscathed.

“Sorry, Hubert,” the woman across from him says, “for borrowing her ear for so long.”

He chuckles softly and looks back to his former professor. Just this once, he supposes he can make an exception, especially since he was hardly blameless either.

[No apologies needed. She has two, after all.]

And she hadn’t been listening much with the ear he’d been speaking into these past two weeks anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!


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